“Poor girl! It is terrible, indeed.”
“Very, very terrible, my boy; and they say poor Mrs Mallow is dying. Surely our poor parson has much to bear—much, indeed, to bear.”
There was a few minutes’ silence, and then Luke turned to his father, and his lips moved to speak, but no words came for a time. At last he said—
“Do you know where Mrs Cyril Mallow is staying, father?”
“Yes, my boy. Portlock told me, and asked me to go and see them if I came up.”
“Go, then, father, and if you can help him, do so. I cannot go, but you—you could. Help Mr Portlock if you can, and come to me for what you require. Poor girl,” he added, to himself, “what a fate it is. Poor girl—poor girl!”
“I—I didn’t think you would take on about it quite so much, my boy; but I thought I ought to tell you about it all.”
“Yes, yes, father; it was quite right. I am glad you came up.”
“It’s—it’s all about money, my boy, that Cyril Mallow has got into trouble.”
“Yes, father, I suppose so,” said Luke, whose thoughts were evidently in another direction.